


Hot Chocoloate

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 01:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: A steaming mug of … something suddenly appears in Quentin’s line of sight. He frowns, following the length of the hand and arm holding the cup out in front of him, up to a shoulder and oh. It’s Eliot. “What?” Quentin asks, eyeing the mug warily.Eliot sighs, “It’s hot chocolate,” He says, shaking the cup slightly at him, “Drink it before it gets cold.”“Hot … Chocolate.”One of Eliot’s eyebrows perks. “Yes,” He says, slow, “You have heard of it, haven’t you? Cocoa, milk, warmth. Mix it all together and you get hot chocolate.”“Is it spiked?”





	Hot Chocoloate

A steaming mug of … _something_ suddenly appears in Quentin’s line of sight. He frowns, following the length of the hand and arm holding the cup out in front of him, up to a shoulder and oh. It’s Eliot. “What?” Quentin asks, eyeing the mug warily.

Eliot sighs, “It’s hot chocolate,” He says, shaking the cup slightly at him, “Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Hot … Chocolate.”

One of Eliot’s eyebrows perks. “Yes,” He says, slow, “You have heard of it, haven’t you? Cocoa, milk, warmth. Mix it all together and you get hot chocolate.”

“Is it spiked?” 

He huffs, leaning down to grab one of Quentin’s hands and place the mug in it. “No it’s not _spiked_. We’re not in high school Quentin. If I wanted to give you alcohol, I’d give you alcohol.” He mutters, flopping down on the couch next to him and extending his legs out to rest on the edge of the coffee table. He turns and watches Quentin expectantly. “Well? Are you going to drink it?”

Sighing, Quentin shifts on the couch. “Did you steal someones hot chocolate, Eliot?” He asks, frowning down at the cup, and the three large marshmallows floating atop the drink.

“No, I didn’t steal - who would _steal hot chocolate_?” He rolls his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the couch, “Just drink the damn hot chocolate, Quentin.” 

“ … Is this like when Margo roofied me?” 

“Jesus,” He lifts his head up and looks at Quentin incredulously. “Can’t a hot chocolate just be a hot chocolate?” 

Quentin’s eyes dart left to right, before narrowing as he shakes his head slowly. “I mean. This _is_ you.”

Something flashes behind Eliot’s eyes, but it’s gone before Quentin can even take a guess at what it means. He reaches over his chest, and plucks one of the marshmallows out of the drink and brings it to his lips quickly to lick the hot chocolate off before it drips. “I made you hot chocolate, Q. Don’t make me regret being nice to you in your hour of need.” He raises an eyebrow and takes a bit out of the marshmallow.

“My … hour of _need_?” Quentin splutters, shifting on the couch again, because what the fuck does that even mean? His _hour of need_? 

Eliot shoves the rest of the marshmallow in his mouth and nods, waving his hand flippantly. “Yes, Q. I’m not completely blind to the world around me. I can see when someone needs a pick me up.” He motions towards the hot chocolate, “Hence - hot chocolate.”

“I - I don’t follow.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Eliot mutters, rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the couch. “So stop freaking out.” 

Margo walks into the cottage then, making a beeline towards them as if she already knows they’re both there. “Hey bitches,” She sings, grinning, “I see Q’s finally left his room,” She plops down on the couch next to him, taking Eliot’s seat, and leaning her head on his shoulder. “How’re you feeling, sourpuss?” Before he can reply, she gasps pulling away and looking up at Eliot. “You made him your granny’s famous hot cocoa?” She asks, pointing down at the mug in Quentin’s hands. “Excellent!”

Which makes this all the more confusing for Quentin, because Eliot has a _granny_? That makes famous hot cocoa? Okay, obviously he has grandparents, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels like Eliot came premade from a factory. Flask and vests included. Cocaine and poison ring sold separately.

“It’s not a big deal,” Eliot repeats, widening his eyes down at her. “He needed a pick me up.” 

Quentin raises a hand, “Yeah, hi, me again.” He interjects, gives them a close lipped smile before continuing, “ _Why_ do I need a pick me up?”

“I just thought it’d be nice,” Eliot says.

At the exact moment Margo answers, “Because you’re in the middle of a depressive episode, obviously.” She points a finger at him as Eliot facepalms above them. “Don’t try denying it. We went off campus to google the symptoms.” She nods, eyebrows raised like she wants him to know she’s serious, “And we don’t go off campus for just anyone.”

Eliot huffs. “Seriously, Bambi?” 

She shrugs. “Dr. Schwartz on WebMD said you should be honest with friends who are having a break down. So, I’m being honest.” She looks at Quentin, smiling soft and not at all like herself - where the hell is all the anger and mischievousness? Somehow he’s more uncomfortable with her being sincere than he is when she gives him the ‘ _we’re going to do something today, Quentin_ ’ face. And that alone is a terrifying thought. Because her _we’re going somewhere_ face usually spells trouble and a portal to another country.

Sincere face makes him feel like he’s on the brink of death and just completely unaware. Did they read his prophesy without him or something?

“I don’t think that’s what it meant,” Eliot mutters, shaking his head and crossing his arms. 

She turns her gaze back on him, frowning. “El,” She says in the same slow tone Eliot used on Quentin earlier and a flash of annoyance burns across Eliot’s face, “We are his friends. It’s our job to make sure he’s okay. He left his room, now we listen to the internet. It knows more about mental healthcare than we do.”

Considering their history, he’s not entirely sure that’s accurate. Then again, they do medicate with drugs, alcohol and sex, so. Maybe.

“Clearly,” Quentin sighs, leaning over to set the hot chocolate on the side table. He looks up at Eliot, who seems more offended than annoyed now, eyes stuck on the cup of hot chocolate. “Guys,” He says, “I’m not having a mental break down. Or a depressive episode. I don’t need a pick me up,” He motions to Eliot, “Though I appreciate the thought. I’m just - I’m really confused.” He turns to Margo, “Why the fuck do you think I’m having a depressive episode?”

Eliot’s the one that answers, somewhat dubiously. “Because you _are_?” He moves to sit on the edge of the coffee table, watching Quentin like he thinks he’s some kind of sick, lost lamb. Which, even when Quentin is having a depressive episode - he absolutely is not a sick, lost lamb. “You haven’t left your room in a week. Nobodies seen you eat. When we talk to you, you just groan through your bedroom door and then don’t say anything else. Q, sweet, innocent, Quentin, you’re diagnosed with depression. You should be able to identify a depressive episode.”

First of all, no.

Second of all, what?

Margo leans forward and grabs Quentin’s hands, holding them in hers. He jumps as he turns to look at her. What the fuck is actually happening? The only thing that could possibly make sense is -

Yeah. They’re planning to murder him. It’d explain the feeling of impending doom.

Eliot and Margo don’t do emotions and feelings or whatever the hell _this_ is. So, obviously, they’re planning to murder him. _Good move not drinking the hot chocolate_ , he thinks, eyes darting towards it before he lets Margo pull him back in with a squeeze of her hands.

“Sweetie,” She murmurs, smiling sickly sweet, and Quentin almost wonders if she’s the one having a break down because there’s a hint of insanity behind her eyes. “It’s okay. We know you get sick sometimes. Your brain breaks. And you feel things ten fold. And sometimes you just need to stop being a person for a while, but _we’re here for you_.” She looks up at Eliot, “That’s what it said to say, right?” 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to follow it up with, ‘that’s what it said to say, right’, Bambi. Kinda ruins the effect,” Eliot turns his attention on Quentin, holding a hand out between them, “Right, Q?” 

He blinks. “ … _What_?”

“Well, he knows I mean it. I just wanted to make sure I phrase it right,” She turns to Quentin as well, “ _You_ got that. Right, Q?”

Quentin hangs his head. “I’m not having a depressive episode,” He repeats, lifting his head to look at them through his hair, “I swear.”

“Then why have you been all cooped up in your room?” Margo demands, looking smug like she knows the answer and he somehow doesn’t. But it’s his brain. He knows when it’s fucking up. And right now, surprisingly, the only thing that’s fucking with his brain is his two apparently - not at all murderous - well meaning friends. 

He pulls his hands out of Margo’s, making a face. “Its finals week, guys,” He mutters, exasperated, “I’ve been _studying_.”

Their mouths fall open. Margo’s the first to react, her face scrunching up as she nods. Her lips are pursed as she falls back against the couch. “Huh,” She breathes, still nodding, “That. Makes sense.” She looks up at Eliot. “Why didn’t we think about that?”

Eliot shrugs, eyes darting to the left, “Because we don’t study.”

“ _Right_.”  
  
Quentin runs a hand through his hair, sighing. They sit quietly for a moment, until Eliot stands up and moves to sit in between them. Margo scoots over without a word, just enough for him to squeeze in. Once he’s settled, they all take a collective breath of air, exhaling slowly. Eliot taps his fingers on his thighs, nodding to himself. “Studying,” He says after a minute of heavy silence. He turns to look at Quentin. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure _that’s_ not a symptom of depression?”

Hanging his head, Quentin responds, “Yes, Eliot. I’m sure.”

“ … Okay.”

“So we read the signs wrong,” Margo admits after a beat, “We’re new to this.”

Quentin looks up at her, furrowing his brow. “New to what?”

She shrugs one shoulder, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “This. People. Feelings.”

“Caring,” Eliot adds.

Oh.

“We just wanted you to be okay,” She rolls her eyes, “Even though you can’t always be. And you’re all about emotions and talking about your feelings and blah, blah, blah …”

Eliot looks at her, wrinkling his nose. “Not sure blah blah blah was one the list of -,”

“Yes, Eliot, I know, thank you.” She glares at him, though it doesn’t hold much heat as her eyes slide over to Quentin. “We just wanted you to know that we care. With us,” She butts her shoulders against Eliot’s, “There’s no need for the touchy feely bullshit,” She flinches, “Not that touchy feely is bad, per say. It’s just -,”

“Something we have to get used to,” Eliot supplies. He turns to look at Quentin. “We just wanted you to know that if you need us, despite our usual stance on … “ He swallows, “ _Emotions,_ we can be there for you _.”_

He stares at them for a few long moments before shaking his head. “Are you sure you guys aren’t in the middle of a depressive episode?” As they go through varying expressions of confusion, he starts to laugh. “I mean. You _studied_.”

“We abso-fucking-lutely did not!” Margo exclaims, looking genuinely offended.

Eliot groans, running a hand down his face and looking at her through his fingers. “We did. We studied.” He sighs, “We studied mental health awareness.”

“Holy shit.” She leans forward to stare at Quentin. “You’ve managed to do what a dozen teachers at this school have failed to do, Q. You actually got us to study.” She shakes her head, leaning back and resting her head on Eliot’s shoulder. “Now you’re really stuck with us.”

“She’s right,” Eliot nods, bringing one arm around to wrap it around Quentin’s shoulder and pull him in against himself, “We have to make sure you don’t tell anyone what we did.”

“If you do,” She peeks over Eliot’s shoulder at him, “We might just have to kill you.”

Okay. So maybe his well meaning friends are a little murderous after all.

He leans his head on Eliot’s shoulder, smiling softly as Eliot’s chin comes to rest atop his hair. He reaches forward to grab Eliot’s hand, and Margo’s comes around as well until the three of them have their hands piled up on Eliot’s lap in a jigsaw hand holding mess.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, calm, until Eliot says, “I can’t believe you let the hot chocolate get cold.”


End file.
